


Control

by leici



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-02
Updated: 2014-09-02
Packaged: 2018-02-15 22:13:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2245191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leici/pseuds/leici
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gretzky and Messier on the set of the NHL Coolest Game on Earth <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GryzYlaR8Yo">"Strategy"</a> commercial from the late '90s.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Control

**Author's Note:**

> This is graphic sex, straight up. But, despite that, the theme is really more along the lines of how Mark feels about Wayne, not as a person, but as an icon. My darling Cheryl is to blame for a) making this Colorado native fall in love with the New York Rangers, b) supplying the link to the commercial, c) for demanding encouraging me to write this story, and d) for doing an "equipment" beta for me. I didn't have a grammar/spelling beta, any and all of those mistakes are mine.
> 
> The lyrics included are from the song called Control by Poe. I had already come up with the title when I remembered the song and found that the lyrics were eerily appropriate (despite the one female pronoun).
> 
> Written February 2007.

_Well you may be king for the moment  
But I am a queen understand  
And I've got your pawns and your bishops and castles  
All inside the palm of my hand_  
  
Somehow, they were alone.  
  
They still sat in high-backed, heavily cushioned chairs, and the chess board was still between them, pieces scattered from a slight of Messier's hand. Gretzky was looking at him, expression bemused, a certain light and dark playing in his eyes. Messier knew that look, and well. He liked to think he was the only one who did.  
  
The room was airy, and thus the silence wasn't really silent, but an echoing sort of quiet. They sat that way for a long half minute, just staring at each other before Messier made a move, standing abruptly. The motion seemed to disturb the balance of air molecules enough to send one of the fallen pieces - Gretzky's king - rocking, causing it to roll from the board onto the wooden surface of the table with a sharp clack. Gretzky had the audacity to look down at it, as if it mattered, but Messier got his attention back quickly as he threw his arms down, sending his gloves to the floor with a pair of dull thuds.  
  
Gretzky was focused on him now.  
  
Messier sidestepped the table in one stride, getting into Gretzky's space in one more. He reached down and hauled Gretzky to his feet by the front of his jersey, the hard fabric of the R at Gretzky's right shoulder digging into his knuckles. Gretzky's hip bumped the table and sent another handful of pieces to the floor, but he managed not to look shocked, or even concerned. He retained that bit of amusement, though it only lingered in his eyes.  
  
Messier's hand pressed into the back of Gretzky's neck and he forced their mouths together, blunt fingertips digging into skin, muscle, and vertebrae. Gretzky couldn't contain his slight yelp of surprise and Messier swallowed it up greedily, jamming his tongue deeply into The Great One's mouth. His fingers moved, found purchase in the short hairs at the back of Gretzky's head, anchored and held tight as he licked at Gretzky's back teeth. Gretzky wasn't fighting, he didn't  _do_  that, but he was attempting to kiss back roughly, reflect the show of dominance, get on even footing.  
  
Messier didn't want it even.  
  
He yanked Gretzky away, hand still fisted in his hair, and gave him a hard look, admonishing. Gretzky had the decency not to try and pull away, just looked back with something that could have been either anger or indifference. Or something in between. But Messier could read him, and he could see the resolve faltering around Gretzky's eyes. They were playing a game, and even as badly as Gretzky wanted to give in, he had a part to play. He set his jaw in resolution, and Messier reached forward with his free hand and caught it tightly, twisting his head back and to the side, marking the newly exposed expanse of Gretzky's throat with his teeth.  
  
This was part of the thrill for Messier, the claiming. This was Wayne Gretzky, the greatest hockey player of all time. No one could even stand in this man's shadow. Messier certainly didn't have his skill, his finesse, his confidence on the ice. But what he did have was control, and being able to assert that - over  _Gretzky_  - made him feel powerful. He was the one that could get Gretzky on his knees, he was the one that could make Gretzky beg. The world might worship Gretzky, but  _he_  was the one that made  _Gretzky_  kneel.  
  
Gretzky's hands were balled into fists, clutching an 11 in each palm, shoving Messier away with just enough force to make it almost believable. With a final bite just below the hinge of Gretzky's jaw, Messier pulled back, pushed Gretzky's hands away from him, and grabbed the front of Gretzky's jersey, jerking it upward. At this point, Gretzky knew better than to get in the way, and he let Messier pull open the front of his pants and unhook the the twin front clasps of his suspenders with deft flicks of his thumbs. Fist full of Gretzky's sweater, Messier yanked him forward for another hard, biting kiss. It was frantic this time, not as deep but just as forceful, and Messier didn't stop until he tasted the copper tang of blood.  
  
Pulling away, he let himself look into Gretzky's face, register the clouding of grey blue eyes, the way his lips were left swollen and wet from this last round of kissing. Something almost tender passed between them but Messier ended it, letting him go only to grab him again by his side and force him to turn around. He reached up the back of Gretzky's jersey and unhooked the one remaining strap of the suspenders, shoving the padded hockey pants down hard as far as they would go.  
  
Even though he knew how cumbersome hockey equipment could be - hell, he was wearing the same basic rig - Messier still growled in frustration at the remaining obstacles. The clips on the garters were in the way of everything else, and Messier's hands were shaking, but he managed to get them free without ripping the cloth to which they were attached. Shorts were now easy to push down out of the way, though they really couldn't go far, not past the tops of Gretzky's shin pads. There was little room to work, but Messier wasn't going to let that get in his way. He took Gretzky by the hips and turned him again, ninety degrees to his left, and shoved him forward against the small table. Another chess piece - this one a bishop - rolled and fell to the floor. A hot surge of satisfaction burned in Messier's chest and Gretzky braced his hands against the edges of the table, bent slightly and waiting.  
  
Messier stepped back and saw to the removal of his own clothing, taking the time to strip off his own jersey and lay it carefully in his abandoned chair. His shoulder pads came off, elbow pads too, suspenders pushed off his shoulders and pants unlaced, taken down and off completely. He unhooked his garters, worked his shorts down over his shin pads and skates, giving himself more freedom to move. He'd slowed things down, and he continued with that approach, reaching out running his palms over Gretzky's naked backside with care, appreciating the soft skin under his fingers. He felt Gretzky relax and he continued the touch, sliding his hands up under Gretzky's jersey and shirt, feeling the contracting muscles of his back as his thumbs grazed his spine. He was stopped by shoulder pads but pushed up anyway, just breaching the barrier with his fingertips before sliding back down, fingers curving to cup Gretzky's sides, feeling the jut of each rib as his palms journeyed back down to Gretzky's hips.  
  
Gretzky was shivering, just a little, and his composure was failing now that he had Messier at his back. As easy as it would be to continue to deny Gretzky what he wanted, a desperate anxiety had begun pooling inside Messier himself. Leaving his left hand on Gretzky's hip, he spit once on the two first fingers of his right, slicking the saliva over the digits with his thumb. He pressed his body in close and reached down into the cleft of Gretzky's ass, damp fingertips pressing against him. Gretzky made a completely undignified sound at the sensation, a whimper of pure need that made the satisfaction burn more brightly behind Messier's sternum and his cock twitch between his legs. He rubbed his fingers over the pucker and while Gretzky managed to contain any further vocalizations, his muscular thighs were shaking with the effort of trying to get his legs farther apart. His back arched (if only a little) and he pushed back, losing a little more ground as far as his feigned indifference. They both knew he wanted this, and badly, even as much as he wanted to keep up the pretense that he didn't. And, at the core of it all, Messier would give this man anything he asked for, heart and soul included.  
  
Still, in the moment, the script helped keep things from getting overly emotional, and Messier stuck to it, leaning in and breaching Gretzky's body with his two, thick fingers. Gretzky exhaled suddenly and inhaled sharply, a clear indicator that the intrusion wasn't yet welcome. Messier tried to ease it by rotating his wrist carefully, working the muscles clenched tightly around his middle knuckles. By and by, Gretzky's body relaxed and Messier moved with a different purpose, sinking deep and pulling back halfway, keying up the need and want and pushing away all memory of pain. It wasn't long before Gretzky lost himself, shaking arms shoving his body back to get more, moaning out loud, albeit softly. Messier worked his fingers free and spat into his palm twice, lubing his cock this time, being more careful about the distribution of the slickness. When he was satisfied, he used one hand to hold Gretzky's body open for him, the other to angle and guide himself. He bumped the tip of his dick against Gretzky's asshole and waited, just half a second, and when there was no movement by Gretzky to pull away, he pushed forward.  
  
It took several long, agonizing seconds to sink from head to base and Messier held his breath for every one of them. He savoured this moment, the first total penetration, the shocking feeling of hot and tight gripping him. He released his breath in a half pant, clutching at Gretzky's hip with one hand, fingers digging in. Gretzky had tipped his head down, though the muscles in his neck were still corded and taut. He was in the same place, that moment of intense sensation, relishing the burn of being filled up from the inside. A few moments longer and there would be no more waiting. Instinct was kicking in, need was building up, and Messier was moving.  
  
It started slowly at first, but geared up quickly, and soon Messier was fucking him in earnest. The rest of the chess pieces tipped and rolled, falling down over the sides of the table to the floor. The table itself groaned in protest as Gretzky clutched its edges with a white-knuckled grip, Messier's pelvis colliding with him harder and harder with each thrust. The empty air of the room caught the sound of flesh meeting flesh and amplified it, bringing it and the echos of heavy grunts and breathy moans back to them with intensity.  
  
Messier suddenly didn't feel close enough and he leaned forward, half over Gretzky's back, moving his hand to the table's edge directly above Gretzky's straining fingers. His other hand caught up and handful of Gretzky's jersey, the tail of a 9 bunching in his fist as he pushed up hard with shorter thrusts. Gretzky lifted his head a little, the muscles in his back going tight, his thighs bunching, and he started shoving back, meeting Messier halfway, bringing them together even harder. Things were in motion and Messier was losing his grip, letting out a shaky half sob into Gretzky's hair. Gretzky was rapidly gaining ground, taking over some of the control. Messier couldn't let this happen.  
  
He stood up again, shoving Gretzky down so his chest was flat on the table, taking both hips in his hands and pounding forward now, hard and fast. Gretzky didn't have the leverage to lift himself up off the tabletop and he tried only once, resigning himself and gripping the table legs in his hands, face turned to the side against the chess board. Messier felt something flare up inside him at the sight of Gretzky's face, eyes tightly shut and mouth open and panting. He wasn't going to last long with this vantage point and he redoubled his efforts, closing his eyes for a minute to center himself.  
  
Gretzky was quickly losing control over even himself, letting words slip past his lips now, fantastically sweet words that were tearing down Messier's own carefully constructed restraint. Messier opened his eyes, watching Gretzky's face openly now, the little trails of sweat slipping over his forehead and cheek, saline collecting at the seam of his eyelids. Gretzky shuddered, suddenly, and his voice broke on Messier's name, body lurching forward against the solidity of the table. Simultaneously, every muscle in his body went rigid, squeezing Messier tight where he was buried inside. Messier faltered, choked on a string of words in his throat, and began to come himself. He glanced down, feeling as if it were all happening in slow motion. He focused on the stretch of fabric over Gretzky's back, blue letters screaming up at him, reminding him he was fucking someone great, greater than himself, taking advantage of that greatness. Something bitter inside him thought of pulling out, ejaculating over those mocking letters, the equally sardonic pair of nines. But he didn't; he let himself go in the warmth, the comforting heat of the human flesh around him. Human: fallible, mortal, susceptible, weak. And he let himself cry out, emotion cutting through him, before he pulled away.  
  
He sat back in the overly soft chair, feeling the crushed velvet against his ass, the backs of his thighs. His body shook and he closed his eyes, tipping his head back to try and contain himself again. He panted heavily for long minutes, fighting to get his breath back, to force his heartbeat into something resembling normal. Just when he felt himself calming, Gretzky spoke.  
  
"Mark?"  
  
Messier opened his eyes, feeling groggy. Gretzky stood above him, tall on his skates, completely dressed and composed. His lips curled into an amused smile. "Did you fall asleep out here?"  
  
Messier sat up and took in his surroundings. He was in the big, soft chair, and the chess board was still in front of him, but the pieces were standing in their places, just as the prop people had set them up. He blinked and licked his lips, coming more into reality. His voice grated when he replied. "Yeah, I guess so."  
  
Gretzky laughed softly and patted Messier on the shoulder, his wedding ring clacking against the plastic of Messier's shoulder pad through his jersey. "Well, wake up. They're ready to start."


End file.
